


a memory is never really over

by girljustdied



Category: Misfits (TV 2009)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-05
Updated: 2010-12-05
Packaged: 2019-10-03 21:05:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17291417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girljustdied/pseuds/girljustdied
Summary: "memories are wonderful things, if you don't have to deal with the past."





	a memory is never really over

**Author's Note:**

> prompt was "the lair."

Alisha wishes he’d been more honest with her. Things would have been harder, more painful, yeah. But at least then half her memories wouldn’t be tainted with the knowledge she’d gained as she felt him die in her arms, her mouth pressed to his temple. Memories. Firsts. Things she had been sure she’d cherish forever suddenly tinged with loss and regret and fucking anger over the uselessness of it all.

No one had ever given her the keys to their place before. And now—she guesses that no one had, still. He wasn’t opening up to her by pressing the cool metal into her palm, his warm mouth to hers. It was another task. Groundwork for things to come. Tick tock.

What a fucking twat she’d been. Ignoring the signs.

“God, it hurts to look at you,” his hand was light on her hip as they faced each other on his bed.

“Ah,” she’d snorted. Had to make a joke out of it because she was afraid. “What every woman longs to hear. Cheers.”

He’d looked down at his hand on her, fingertips tracing up her side and skidding over the shape of her ribcage. She’d felt a slight tickle, but forced herself to stay still. Enjoy it. She’d missed it.

“I missed you,” he whispered, voice low, an echo digging right under her skin. Said her name like he couldn’t help himself, “Alisha.”

He’d always seemed sad. She wasn’t blind, for fuck’s sake. But he was never desperate, never clutched at her the way he had that last morning. She’d written it off. Asked him if they had any pet names for one another in the future.

He wouldn’t say.

The first time she’d gone back to his secret little lair, she hadn’t been able to do much more than curl up in their— _his_ —bed with that photo clutched against her chest. Las Vegas. Did they go? Would they? Or had he changed everything now?

Time travel. Fucks with your head. Of course Simon would be the one to brave it. The one able to think it through without his head spinning with questions almost impossible to answer. Impossible for her to answer.

He’d of told her she needed to watch more science fiction films, maybe. And she would have told him to stuff it, what did she need to do all that work for when she had him as a regular fountain of useless knowledge?

She tried to smell him in the sheets, but all she could make out was her own perfume.

“I love you,” she’d cried into the soft fabric. Had to correct herself, “I loved you. Bastard.”

The second time, she tried to think about what he might want from her now. He hadn’t given her the key to the place to use it as a twisted kind of gravesite, she felt certain. And the computer she’d taken a peek at before was gone, so she supposed that he didn’t want her to do any more learning about or fixing of things to come, either.

She’d stared at his wall of photos, looking for clues and finding none. Took them all down, one by one. Paused at a photo of the two of them that she actually remembers—recognizes the bow in her hair and the scar on Simon’s lip. They’re on the roof. He’s looking at her. She knows that look.

It’s just that it feels like it belongs to a different person entirely. One she’d only barely gotten to know.

She considered burning the polaroids, but in the end couldn’t make herself commit to burning any more of him. Could still smell—no. Breathe. Breathe. Don’t think about it. That’s what her nightmares are for.

She’d set about cleaning the place. Spent a few nights doing this, sweeping and scrubbing until she was too burnt out to make it home. Slept with the covers over her head, something she hadn’t done since she was four and afraid of the dark. As long as none of her body was exposed, she’d felt safe. She’d be safe.

Stupid, really. Paper-thin sheets weren’t exactly going to protect her from fuck all. Alisha realized that eventually and promptly forced herself to get over it.

She’d thought about moving in. Making his place hers. She needed to leave her mum’s at some point anyway—and it’s not like she was sleeping there very often at any rate.

She couldn’t do it, though. Took the photos and his sheets back to her room and turned it into his instead. Kept the key slung around her neck at all times. A weight. Never went without it.

Until she did. Got very drunk one night, scribbled the address of the flat on a napkin, folded it around the key and snuck it into Simon’s jacket. Just like that. She’d felt like it was strangling her, had to take it off. Her laughter while she danced with Kelly felt more like a scream. This probably had something to do with a girl who was flirting with Simon over in the corner of the club, and to be perfectly honest she just wanted to go to the loo, puke, and black out.

Which she eventually did. Woke up on Nathan’s fantastically disgusting mattress in the community center.

“Oh god, did we?” She’d asked after Nathan’d woken her up by reaching over her for a sock.

“Oh yeah, love. You were an animal,” he wiggled his eyebrows, obviously fucking with her. “Absolute tiger.”

“Thank fuck,” she’d murmured, hand covering her eyes to keep the light out. “What happened?”

“Simon wasn’t sure if you’d want your mum to see you like that,” he mimes her probable sloshed state emphatically. “And the little twat was afraid to take you to his.”

It’s about this time she remembered what she’d done. Promptly threw up on the floor next to Nathan’s bed.

“For fuck’s sake, Alisha!”

She’d only grumbled about how it wasn’t much of a change to his habitat, stood slowly to stop from emptying her guts again due to drink-induced vertigo, and haltingly made her way to the toilet.

“I’m not cleaning that shit up, I’m telling you now just so we’re clear. Hey! You hear me there, tiger?”

Simon had stared at her that whole day during community service.

“Are you feeling better?” he’d asked, voice hesitant but concerned. Bags under his eyes. Held out a water bottle. “You should hydrate. That’s the key. I’ve heard.”

He didn’t mention the actual key. The one to the flat. Didn’t even hint at it.

She didn’t know what to make of it.

It goes on for over a week—no mention. Nothing. And she can’t go back there, try to break in, just on the off-chance that Simon could be there. Would know it was her. Oh, god.

It felt like losing him all over again. She wasn’t ready to let it go.

She gets into yet another scrape—there’s never an end to fucked up shit happening to her, really. But things get more serious than usual when she jumps in front of Simon and intercepts a shovel to the head from the girl Simon had been seeing.

It happens in a split-second. She couldn’t help himself—it was _Simon_. His hands had fisted in the back of her jumper to try and get her to move with him, but it was too late. Collapsed back against his body with a small, desperate cry.

Wakes up to bright, bright light piercing through her eyelids. Pain.

She knows where she is. Can feel an unbearably familiar weight pressing down into the mattress next to her.

Was she? Could she be? Had Curtis? Had the Simon that had traveled back—she buries her face into the pillow. There are deep maroon sheets on them now.

“Alisha?” Simon. Not him. His hand too tentative on her back, jerking away when she speaks.

“Where are we?” she plays dumb.

“I’m not sure. But I think that the man with the mask used to occupy this flat. It was the closest place I could take you.”

“How about a fucking hospital, Simon?” Pain. It’s searing. She touches her head and feels something wet and sticky. Blood.

He’s quiet for a short moment. Hurt. “I was afraid of what would happen when they tried to touch your skin to stitch you up.”

Oh. “Oh,” she gives him. “Sorry. It’s just—my head—”

“I wanted to thank you,” he interrupts, eyes on his hands. “I should have known that a girl like that wouldn’t be—”

She can’t bear to hear him say it. Wants to cry. “Simon, can you help me up? Help me to the shower?” He eyes her, suddenly suspicious, so she tries to cover, “All this blood is making me feel sick. There’s one in here, yeah?”

“Yes,” his voice unreadable, but hands firmer on her as he helps her up.

She can remember her first walk from the bed to that shower with incredible clarity. The curiosity, the shock. Him. The future Simon, eyes clear and unafraid. Almost challenging, but tender all the same. Love.

She shrugs off her jumper once they make it there now. Starts to tug her dress over her head only to freeze when she feels Simon immediately shuffle back.

“There’s—there’s a first aid kit in here. I’ll be back,” is all he mutters before turning awkwardly and leaving her there with her dress half-off.

She’d forgotten. Shit. He’d probably chalk it up to her being a slag.

She keeps on her bra and knickers, starts the tap, steps in and watches her blood swirl down the drain. The cut on her head feels relatively small, actually. The length of her index finger, and not terribly deep. It could be much, much worse.

She can’t hear anything over the water, but can see him approaching again through the clouded glass. Knows he can see the shape of her through it, can almost feel his stare on her skin. It makes her tremble despite the heat of the water.

“Sorry about before,” she calls out just to fill up the tense space between them. “I forget sometimes that you’re still a virgin.” His silence is suspicious. Telling. “Simon?”

“Not anymore,” is all he answers.

“Oh,” pops right out of her mouth.

“I hurt her,” he sounds like he’s crying. Oh, god. “I don’t know how badly. Bad. I had to. She was going to kill me. She’d hurt you. I was afraid. I was afraid.”

She turns off the tap, tries to stifle the sobs building up in her chest.

Crouches to grab her jumper off the floor and zip it up over her body. Approaches Simon slowly, knows if she moves too suddenly he’ll flinch. Snap. Grasps the edge of one the sleeves of his jacket and leads his shaking body to the bed. Sits him down on the edge of it.

“Do you think I’m evil?” he says.

She kneels between his legs, hovers a trembling hand a centimeter from his cheek. “No.”

“But I am. And worthless. A waste of space. A freak. You and Nathan were right. No one will ever want to be with me.”

She can feel tears, wet and hot, slipping down her cheeks. “No. I never—”

“Don’t lie.”

“I didn’t know you before.”

“And you do now?” Incredulous.

She does. She will. For the first time, she’s strangely happy—grateful to be with this Simon. To be there with him. For him. His older self had helped her. Healed her the tiniest bit, even, before splitting her open again.

“Fuck,” she mutters, hand near his face clenching into a fist. “I wish—I wish I could touch you.”

“Why?” his brow wrinkling.

It puts her on edge. She’d never even considered that he wouldn’t want her yet. “Because I want to, all right?”

He reaches up, touches her hair with a feather light caress. “I don’t want your pity.”

“Good. Because you’re not getting it,” she takes in a deep breath. “Lie down.”

His eyes search hers for a long time before he does, slow and awkward. She crawls onto him, straddles his lap.

“Can I kiss you?” She doesn’t know what she’ll do if he denies her. She doesn’t care that he won’t remember it all. Doesn’t care about the disgusting shit he might say.

She needs something real between the two of them. Tangible.

“Yes.”

She presses her hands into the mattress on each side of his head and does just that, her mouth careful but sure against his—

“I want—”

“Shh,” she smothers his mouth with hers, sighs when his hands reach up to grasp her hips underneath her hoodie. “Shhh—”

“I want you—I want—Alisha—always—” his hips keening up against hers, his cock hard underneath his trousers. “I want to fuck—”

“Quiet, Simon,” she pants. Grabs his hands and puts them on her zipper, makes him slide it down. “Don’t ruin it.”

He goes silent at the sight of more of her body. Focused. Sits up to mouth a tit through the material of her bra, still-damp from the shower, his other hand circling around her to fumble with the clasp. He groans unintelligibly into her—he’s doing it on purpose, she realizes. Can’t stop the words, so he makes them a rumble in her skin instead. Makes her eyes slam shut in pleasure.

She burrows her hands between them to unbutton his trousers, grasp his cock and pump it slowly. He’s finally got her bra undone, but is too distracted by her touch to take it or her hoodie off fully—they hang limp around her chest as he sucks a nipple into his mouth.

She can’t wait anymore, yanks her knickers to the side and positions herself over the head of his cock. Rubs the head of it along her slit, teases her clit with it.

His head cranes back and after he takes in a wet, strangled breath she covers his mouth with her other hand. Pushes him back down into the bed with it, and when her hand curves he opens his mouth and bites down on the side of it.

She gasps, thrusts down and lets him enter her. He bites harder and she closes her eyes tight, pistons slowly above him. His hips jerk up to meet her, take a little bit to match her rhythm, but then—

Oh god. Oh god. _Simon_.

If she wasn’t already crying, this is when she’d start.

“I—” fuck it, he won’t remember this anyway, “I love you. I love you. I’m sorry.”

He tries to twist his head, get her hand off his mouth, but she can’t let him. Uses her free hand to grab one of his and drag it between them. Touches his fingertips to her clit, makes him rub them against her until he gets it—does it on his own.

It’s too much. Him. His eyes—the way he’s looking at her.

She comes quickly, tilts her head back and sees white. Feels his hips jerking up into her in staccato, lifting her body, doing most of the work. He grunts around her hand, hips thrusting once more before holding deep inside of her.

As soon as his breathing slows down slightly, she slips off. Takes her hand from his mouth to let him get air in easier. Sits next to him on the bed with her legs tucked under her body and watches him come down.

He’s quiet for a long time, eyes taking her in. She moves to lie on her side facing him, tugs her jumper around her.

“Did we—did we have sex?” he finally asks, dazed. Tucks his softening cock into his underwear, shakily zips his trousers back up.

“Yeah,” a small, gentle grin curling unbidden on her lips. Her eyelids feel heavy. She’s very, very tired, suddenly.

“Does that,” he swallows, starts again, voice steady. “Are we seeing each other now?”

On the edge of sleep, everything feels so suddenly right. Like coming full circle. “Yeah,” she murmurs. Is about to drift off fully—

“Alisha,” his hand on her hip over her clothes. “Don’t fall asleep. You could have a concussion.”

“Fuck, it hurts to look at you,” she says quietly before she can think not to.

He smiles.


End file.
